The OffRoad To Redemption
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: When it rains, it pours. But that's not always a bad thing. Irresponsible use of alcohol, automobiles, and adult concepts. Fair warning: Buffy fan only; never saw Angel. FaithxGunn.


_**The Off-Road to Redemption**_

DarkSlayer84

**Disclaimers:** Buffy/Angel etc. etc. is property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox Ent. Ltd., et. al. I'm just playing with the characters. Strong sensuality and alcohol use.

_There is no greater guilt than discontentment. --Lao Tzu_

It never rained like this in Sunnydale. But this isn't Sunnydale--this is not home--but, hey, Sunnydale wasn't home, either.

But him? He's got a smile like home, like someplace safe and warm, and she knows what it's like to be tough on the outside, but to need somebody.

He's smart, too; he said something once about school, and she'd panicked, blanked on him, her head swimming with thoughts of money and grades and not being good enough, _never_ being good enough. Until he'd smiled, crooked and shining, and said it wasn't for him, that lifestyle; he had the brains to spare, but it wasn't his scene.

When he said that, she could breathe again.

They were an okay fit, it was an okay day with okay beer, and they were having a more-than-okay kind of conversation, until the sky had opened up and pissed rain on them, thick, fat, warm droplets like tears or blood.

So now they're sitting in his car, his Honda Whatever, and she sure as hell can't drive anywhere, because she doesn't know L.A. for shit, and he can't drive anywhere because superstrength doesn't make him super-sober, and she doesn't feel like having to untangle anyone from any telephone poles.

He laughed when she said that. His laughter was warm and it swam through her head, hummed against her skin; that wasn't just the beer talking. His arm slid past hers--reaching to fiddle with the radio, to find something besides ads and midday talky-crap--and that bit of accidental touch sent shivers of pleasure up the hair on her arms. He'd eased the seat back, sprawled out flat, listening to the rain and the music and looking over at her.

Maybe she shouldn't've worn a white shirt. It squelches when she moves, clear as glass in the places it sticks to. Hell, though, he wore one too, no big deal. He looked but he didn't stare, twisted to one side and offered her a jacket that had lived in the backseat for awhile. Sure, she'd said, what the hell, and the jacket's too big for her, a soft faded navy thing with the hood torn off, and it smells like him.

Thanks, she'd said, and pressed one side of it against her chest as she peeled out of her shirt. She's not sure why she did it in that order--stupid Rolling Rock, stupid her for having six of them, bad, stupid Faith--but he's looking now, head tilted, and what the hell is that on the radio: Offspring?

She can remember when that song came out. She's getting too fucking old. He sits up, reaches over. Offspring fades away and becomes something else, becomes static with a twist of the dial. He's good with his hands.

Right. Shouldn't be thinking that. No more shirt. The jacket doesn't zip. She folds it closed.

"Uh," he says, trying to think about golf and musicals and litigation and cars. He saw her birthmark. "Been like this all week. Raining like hell."

"It doesn't rain," she says, "in hell."

He raises an eyebrow, trying to figure out if she's serious, and then her lips are against his; what the shit? He's not like that, not about that, he was just trying to be nice and hey, uh, maybe they should--

"Shh," she says, and it tickles against his face as she presses him down into the seat. Her lips are so _soft_. She's warm and smooth and he should be thinking of Fred, but Fred doesn't think of him anymore, she'd said so--Faith is like, Faith is warm, soft and warm, and it's been long enough; there's no guilt in this. Faith tastes like beer and lipstick, mellow and hungry, and his arms are around her before he really thinks about it too much.

This girl, she's quick on the draw, quick with a zipper. But he pries her off. He just wants to hang onto her for a second. It's just nice to have a lady in his arms again. She fits right there, and it takes some bending--she is flexible and slides up against him, pushes forward on her hips. That's just, wow. He's seen some things but she moves like liquid, like smoke, like she's not human.

Maybe she's not. He isn't, not exactly, either. Hey, that's fine. Her hands, her murmuring in his ear, the soft silky sway of her hair over his hand as he cradles the back of her head and pulls her in for another kiss--all of that is real, and all of that is his, right now.

When they break apart for air, she grabs at his clothes and he cranes his neck for her; his shirt rolls up and off easily enough. Her fingernails are bright red; she dances them over his chest, just lightly as she presses down at him with her hips, and it makes him groan. Her hands are warm and strong on his shoulders, squeezed against his upper arms; her back is damp, chilled from the drying rain, and she trembles as he kneads against the tension there with his palms, all the way to her waist, to the top of her jeans, to her bottom. She purrs for him and her kisses have gone just a little wet, a little harder and faster; she's nipping at his neck, now, breathing on him, eager and hot.

This time, when she goes for his belt, he doesn't stop her, and she smiles at him as she undoes her fly.

"Faith," he says. One last offer of an exit sign; an excellent excuse to breathe her name. She's easing rayon and cotton aside--he doesn't see what color, he doesn't think to look; her eyes are huge, so deep he can just about see himself in them, waiting but not hesitating, a smile on his face.

"Gunn," she says, and her hand is on him, stroking, guiding, warm and sure and affectionate.

Outside, it stops raining.


End file.
